


background noise

by zvous



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F, spoilers for s3e21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 22:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5557322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvous/pseuds/zvous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can't sleep after the day's events, the background noise of her life keeping her on automatic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	background noise

**Author's Note:**

> well this episode made me Sad 
> 
> and apparently i can only write short, sad things

She can't sleep. 

Her apartment’s mostly quiet, traffic in the streets below providing a constant hum, the clock on her bedside ticking steadily, the hour hand at three o'clock. Her bed is soft and comforting beneath her, but offers no help to her tonight. 

She pushes herself up, legs swinging off the side of the bed to rest softly on the floor. Light filters in softly through the closed shutters, yellow and artificial and showing up in stripes on the floor. 

Standing up fully, she takes a moment to simply observe her apartment, unchanged for all these years. It's been attacked, destroyed, seen more fights than it should have. 

As has she. 

Her mind is sluggish, going over everything that happened in the run of the day, lingering on each event, making no new truths or any sense of them. 

Learning the truth about Oliver, fighting the league, fighting him, 

and losing Nyssa. 

Her feet carry her to her closet, and she gets dressed without a conscious thought. She puts on a coat, slips her purse over her shoulder, and locks the door behind her. The apartment holds too many vivid memories, and she has enough to deal with from just today. 

The streets are far less crowded, the only people coming home after a long night or those looking for trouble. She has to fight the urge to start trouble herself, shuts down her urges, her emotions, her thoughts. 

The diner’s bell dings as she pushes open the door, the bright neon sign proudly stating that it's open twenty-four hours a day flickering behind her. The same artificial lighting through all of Starling City lights the room, and she sits down at a table to the far side. 

A tired looking server comes to her table, and the order of a burger, fries, and a shake are out of her mouth before she can process them, the server nodding without writing it down. 

She looks at the table, lines from the cleaning cloth visible on its worn surface. The light above her head reflects back at her, and she looks at it, allowing the scattered cars and the clock on the wall beside her to provide a background to her thoughts. 

She doesn't even process them, her mind a murky haze that the occasional thoughts shines through like headlights. 

She wonders why she didn't order a drink. 

The waitress returns, placing the plate of food and the shake on the rickety table, and she says a quiet thanks. 

She looks at the food, one of her favourite meals, and picks up a single fry. 

I never understood your country’s need to fry everything. 

The fry is in her shake before the words finish echoing through her mind, and she pulls it back, blankly watching it sink from her hand with the added weight from its dip. 

And she knows why she came to this diner, today, in a repeat of her earlier visit. 

The main thought that cuts through her mind's fog is Nyssa. 

How she couldn't save her. 

How she shouted her name when they were thrown on the floor.

Her expression as the league dragged her away. 

The looks she gave her during those weeks of training, when they were both happy, and how they were finally, finally, moving past their shared loss. 

How she never mentioned how she was beginning to feel for the other woman. 

In a moment of clarity, she waves the server over, asking quickly if her uneaten food could be packaged to bring home. She goes to the counter, pulls out the appropriate bills, takes the styrofoam box and cup, and makes her way back to her apartment. 

Her refrigerator comes to life as she stows the containers inside, adding to the city's soft noise. 

She hangs up her coat, removes her shoes, and steps into her room, coming to rest in front of those shuttered windows. 

The outside lights shine, the clock keeps ticking, and Laurel Lance lets herself cry.


End file.
